


the sound of them

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Because It's That, Is There A Specific Word For Listening To Two People Fuck On The Phone, M/M, Phone Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8053882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: He can hear Proko bite out, “Fuck, K, don’t tell him,” followed by the hoarse, desperate groan of Prokopenko shutting up. It is downright pornographic, and Ronan feels filthy hearing it, the sounds close and raw enough to make him feel like an intruder. He should hang up. He should absolutely hang up.





	the sound of them

**Author's Note:**

> so you can blame f0x-meets-w0lf and [this post](http://nsfw0lf.tumblr.com/post/148919326306/theres-no-way-you-can-tell-me-that-kavinsky) entirely for this one.
> 
> Thanks to [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) for beta reading, she is a quality porn commentator.

It is a very slow night in Henrietta. The day’s heat still clings to the walls, and Ronan – fair-skinned Irish son Ronan – is sore from hours hunched up in Monmouth, in front of the little fan that Gansey bought instead of a real air conditioner because it has ‘character’. At some point around blazing noon all the insects passed out from heat fatigue, and it’s still quiet as the day inches past midnight into a new one that’s sure to be just as miserably hot.

Sleep would be impossible, even if it wasn’t quiet enough for the sound of the shower running to travel cleanly through the walls. Over the rush of water, Ronan can hear Gansey tunelessly singing an Aglionby cheer song, the one Ronan learned to despise the most when he’d been a part of the rowing team’s spectator stands. He retreats to his room, trying to get away from the repetitive tune before it can lodge in his head, but even with the window shoved all the way up, there’s no breeze and the air in his room is thick enough to choke on.

He’d texted Kavinsky an hour ago, a simple, polite, _want to race u prick?_ sent far more out of the desire to leave Monmouth than to actually see Kavinsky – this is a night to sprawl out on the floor like a dying starfish, not one for any vigorous activity – but he still hasn’t heard back. It frustrates him, because Ronan is the worst kind of person; he makes everyone else wait days for a reply, if he’s even going to reply at all, but he expects everyone else to get back to him near instantly.

The lack of response from Kavinsky of all people feels like a slight, and the heat makes it a drier, barbed thing that needles more than it should. Ronan glares at the blank screen of his phone (‘blank’, excluding a dozen messages from Declan and Gansey, and twenty game requests from Matthew) and drags up Kavinsky’s unsaved number, hitting call on the kind of impulse he expects to regret for the rest of the night.

Kavinsky takes a long time to answer, but that’s not totally unexpected; Ronan imagines it must take K a while to dig his phone out of a pile of baggies and trash food. When Kavinsky eventually picks up, there’s a weird silent moment with nothing but background noise, a distant television, and someone not too far from the phone demanding, “Fuck, K, really?”

Kavinsky’s voice comes through, directed more at whoever’s in the room with him than Ronan. “I can’t miss a call from my boy Lynch.” The change in focus when he addresses Ronan is an immediate, oily shift to, “ _Princess_ , sorry I couldn’t make it out tonight.”

Someone near K groans and Ronan feels a flash of anger that Kavinsky can mock him in front of his gang without being made to bleed for it. He also hopes, desperately, that Gansey’s singing is distant enough that it won’t make it down the line. “Fuck you, K. You’re usually begging me to come play, you don’t stand me up unless you’re too fucked to walk.”

Kavinsky laughs, and halfway through his breath hitches, turns into a long, sweet exhale that prickles the back of Ronan’s neck in the strangest way. “I’m sorry you’re feeling left out, sweetie. Something came up.” He laughs again, and Ronan catches the sounds in the background: something too much like a slap, an answering moan that’s too real to be the television.

“The fuck are you doing?” Ronan asks, though he’s seen K’s basement enough to guess, and he knows that Kavinsky wouldn’t have a problem taking a call even if Skov had a girl two feet away. “Proko sucking you off?” He tries to sound disgusted, to bury all trace of curiosity, with only partial success.

“No,” Kavinsky answers, amusement coming through heavy breaths. There’s another slap of skin on skin and Ronan knows even before he’s told, “I’m fucking him.”

A spike of arousal stabs right down through Ronan’s gut, hitting him unexpectedly hard as the background sound of ‘television’ reconfigures to Proko rocking in Kavinsky’s lap. Heat leaks through Ronan’s cheeks and he can’t stop himself from imagining the scene; Proko flushed from head to toe, his legs spread as wide as they’ll go, back slicked with sweat and arced against Kavinsky’s chest while Kavinsky drags blunt nails up his thighs. It’s a position Ronan is familiar with. He is very, very glad Kavinsky can’t see his face.  

He can hear Proko bite out, “Fuck, K, don’t _tell_ him,” followed by the hoarse, desperate groan of Prokopenko shutting up. It is downright pornographic, and Ronan feels filthy hearing it, the sounds close and raw enough to make him feel like an intruder. He should hang up. He should absolutely hang up. But he can’t bring himself to shift the phone an inch away from his ear.

“Don’t be shy, Proko,” Kavinsky coos, before asking Ronan, “You want to say hi?”

Ronan doesn’t need to reply; he can tell the phone is moving as the rough breathing gets louder, until there are half-swallowed moans an inch from his ear. It’s almost enough to drown out the perversely close sound of Kavinsky working his hips. Either Prokopenko doesn’t want to say hello, or he’s having trouble forming words, because all Ronan gets are begging little breaths, filled with lust and need and probably annoyance at K. The thought of saying something to Prokopenko comes and goes, because what would he _say?_ It’s too intimate. It’s not his scene. He should hang up.

He listens to a crushed string of pleading Ukrainian until Kavinsky takes the phone away.

At some point, Ronan’s hand had dropped to the front of his jeans, and he rubs himself, just lightly, the barest hint of pressure as the hoarse sound of Kavinsky takes over again. “So, Lynch,” he asks, impressively conversational, “How’s your night going?”

Ronan isn’t ready for topics other than Kavinsky, Prokopenko, or what Kavinsky is doing to Prokopenko, and the supremely casual tone catches him off-guard. But he thinks _stay on the line_ and he manages, “Shitty, it’s too fucking hot.”

“Does your trash heap warehouse even have AC?” There’s a strangled cry after the question, Prokopenko taking something too hard, a bite or a scratch or a thrust at just the right angle to make him tear up. Ronan grinds his leather bands between his teeth, aching to just _see_ Proko’s plush lips closing around the sound.

Words feel wildly insignificant, but Ronan is willing to say whatever garbage will let him keep listening. “We haven’t put it in yet. Fucking place was built in the sixties.” He grinds his hand down against denim grain while Kavinsky gives a hoarse little murmur in response, as though they’re both just really into architectural practice. There’s another hard huff of breath from Proko that sets Kavinsky moaning in the back of his throat, and Ronan knows that sound and the expression that goes with it; heavy-lidded, curling lip, smug and confident and warm through to his core.

“Triple Dick’s an aesthetic man,” Kavinsky replies, still somehow stringing words together though the low moan edging his words is getting rougher. “Unlike you. You don’t need things to be pretty, you just need _performance_.” This is punctuated by the hardest slap of skin yet, and a truly lewd prayer from Prokopenko; Ronan imagines Proko’s head lolling back, skin burning red all the way down his neck while Kavinsky so roughly, steadily wrecks him and Ronan starts fumbling his way out of his pants one handed.

Ronan hadn’t expected to like any form of phone sex, given that phones were involved, but this – this voyeuristic flush, the aching proximity, the gross intimacy of the voices that come hoarse and gasping to his ears – is something he can shamefully, shamefully get behind. He hopes he remembered to charge his fucking phone.

The reality of Monmouth returns too sharply with the sound of the bathroom door opening and Ronan remembering both that Gansey exists and that the door to his room is a fraction ajar; he jams his shoulder against the door to slam it shut, grimacing at how obvious the bang will be to everyone listening. There’s only a short pause before Kavinsky asks, “You alone there, Lynch?” He laughs again, but it gets cut off with the next hitch of his breath.

“Of course I’m fucking alone,” Ronan replies. It’s best not to think of Gansey shower-fresh in only the next room, and much easier to lock his door and kick his jeans off properly. He’s committing to it now, untangling his pants from his ankles, cheeks burning with the near-surreal tang of what he’s doing. He hopes K doesn’t think long-distance blue balls are funny.

Kavinsky’s panting a lot more now; half his words come out quiet, like his mouth is on Proko’s skin, like his focus is shifting back to Proko and away from Ronan as physical need gets harder to ignore. “Not putting on a show for Dick Cubed or trailer trash?”

“I don’t fuck all my friends,” Ronan snaps, the _like you_ left unsaid because it’s obvious enough to not need saying, and because he’s currently getting settled on his bed, one hand on his phone and one hand around his cock, just for the _sound_ of Kavinsky fucking his friends.

“Sure you don’t,” Kavinsky replies, and then stops talking to do something that makes Proko fucking _keen_. It’s appallingly unfair, and Ronan’s hand curls tighter around his dick, trying to put a picture to the sound, the desperate need and the shaky curses that follow, the soft kiss that follows as Kavinsky works his way up or down Proko’s throat in some kind of apology. He’s been taking things really fucking slow, Ronan realises, and it’s just been to draw out the show, just for _this_ , for Ronan grinding his teeth together miles away while his hand gets too-slick from the audio-only experience. There’s nothing in the world Kavinsky can’t have if he wants it, and tonight he apparently wants to torture his two boys at once.

“ _Fuck_ , K,” Proko whispers, for the third time that night, air pushed uncertainly through his lips, “Do that again.”

Ronan tries to brace himself, but the raw ache that bursts breathless from speaker sends a rush of heat all the way through him. He strokes his dick too rough, barely realising, just base reaction to the helpless break in Proko’s voice. It’s so easy to tell, just from his voice, how close to the edge he is and Ronan doesn’t know how long K was playing with him before he called, doesn’t know how long Proko’s had K buried in him. Proko’s been holding onto the brink of what he can take with K’s fingers bleeding bruises into his bared skin, K’s mouth making it’s sweet path along every ridge it can reach, K’s hips flush with his until his legs are trembling and there’s an inferno throbbing in his core waiting for just the right spark to erupt.

“You like that, baby boy?” K breathes, and it’s all for Proko, but fuck, Ronan is _right there_ and he can’t stifle the moan that rises from him. Kavinsky’s laugh is down to a single breathy exhale, but his voice is still a croon for Proko as he says, “ _Lynch_ likes it. Make a bit more noise for him.” Proko obliges, because Proko always obliges K, and he lets out a verse of ‘god’ and ‘K’ like they’re the same thing. Ronan’s toes curl; he leans back against his pillow and scrapes his own nails over his skin, the stinging red lines Kavinsky always leaves him with.

His own breathing is too hard to disguise, and sweat’s just starting to bead on his temples; it was a hot day, then a hot night, and his bedroom window is scandalously open, leaking his breath into the night in exchange for more dead air. He should have put some music on, except K would have fucking laughed at him, so now he’s panting into a cellphone and wishing no one could hear. His dick is flushed dark and painfully hard in his hand, and he’s about as ready as Proko just from trying to _picture_ Proko coming apart in Kavinsky’s lap.

There’s about one minute where the three of them find an equilibrium, Ronan rubbing himself hard enough he’ll regret it later while K works Proko steadily harder, wrenching out choppy curses in Ukranian and English, K’s name entangled with every one. And then Kavinsky’s breath finally breaks; his voice thrums, and a moment later Ronan finds the other end of the call jammed up against Prokopenko’s mouth while Proko gasps out his testament to Kavinsky’s absolute dominion. It’s too close, too intimate, too loud in his ear, ragged bliss made for someone else. Ronan listens to Prokopenko come with Kavinsky inside him, and Ronan spills out over his hand with a messy groan that absolutely no one is listening to.

The aftermath is a haze of pleasant throbbing and a curdled feeling of shame that he’s too hot to really indulge. He comes down slow, his heartbeat echoing inside his skull slowly easing back until everything is just a warmth of worn muscles and the much gentler breathing from the other end of the phone.

“That was fucking nice,” Kavinsky is saying, though it’s soft and therefore not for Ronan. “You feel so _good_ , baby boy.” There’s a sound like a kiss, like Kavinsky’s head on Proko’s shoulder as Proko lolls back against him, both of them languid and pleased in K’s smoky room. Ronan considers how long it’s going to take Kavinsky to remember him and start saying _Lynch_ and _how’d you like that?_ and other assorted garbage, and he hangs up. It’s a staggering relief, like Kavinsky’s eyes have been on him ever since he dialled, and now Ronan is finally alone enough to breathe.

He knows he’s going to hear about this, and that he can only hope it won’t be in front of an audience, but it’s hard to care in the immediate post-sex sweetness. His phone is gross with sweaty fingerprints, and he chucks it into a pile of clothes without checking to see it lands okay.

The only actual regret Ronan feels is that he got worked up for something on a night so worthlessly humid, and now he’s sweaty and sticky and Gansey is between him and the bathroom.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh the worst thing that happened to this fic was the reminder of 'chortle' 'vomit' and 'wingnut-ears' like. please just let me have this.


End file.
